Stories Untold: Shooting Star
by Penguin1127
Summary: Why not live his life as a shooting star? One-shot.


He comes back changed.

Annabeth tries(too hard, in his opinion) to reach him, to find some way to get the old Luke she knew back. He isn't entirely lost, no, but he is no longer what she knew. _No_ , he wants to tell her. _Just...just leave me and don't look back._ It's easier that way(break it off abruptly, bear with the pain. Forget, and eventually move on. He ignores the jab in his chest at the thought of being forgotten).

Before, perhaps, he once had a purpose. A murky inkling of an idea itching at the back of his mind; a wishful fantasy deemed childish and silly now. A hero, he had wanted to have been. A hero for the gods. Their champion(not someone who hovered in the background, _just_ another demigod). Now, he isn't so sure.

His thoughts turn dark and bitter, swirling with hatred and a thirst for something more. Power, perhaps. Recognition, maybe. But how was he to achieve that?

He might have been the same Luke he once was on the outside; laughing, conversing, giddily joining into the antics of the Hermes cabin. But no. You never know what's on the inside, never know how potent thoughts can be.

Whispers visit him. _Just another demigod,_ some say. _Pitiful. You'll never amount to much._ Others argue amongst themselves. _You never know. Perhaps there might still be a chance for him…?_ He tries not to listen(he really does). But of course, the voices are too strong(he sometimes wonders if only his reasonings had been louder; then maybe he wouldn't have given in).

Nemesis never visits(he finds that strange. Goddess of revenge, yet with all the insatiable hunger for vengeance he harbors, she never comes). But someone else does.

It's dark(darkness; something he welcomes). A voice, speaking, saying all the things he wants to hear.

He knows it's not real(too good to be true). Lies, more lies(all around him, why can't he see the truth?).

 _The gods have gotten their way for far too long._ Ruled us, crushed us, under the guise of fairness. Why do the demigods never have a say? Pawns(not important; _just_. Just this or that). You say they help us(but do they?). He knows, he knows now. They don't(no stupid ancient law can be an excuse). Watches them die(for them), unmoving. Watches them scream, cry, thrash about(nightmares, whispers, a cliff, darkness). Watches them bleed(blood staining their hands, crimson red, dripping down). Watches them cry themselves to sleep, tears streaming down in rivulets(forget to acknowledge them, turn away from the people they themselves brought to life). But they never help, do they?

 _They often forget that you are not mere pieces in a game, that you have—should have the liberty to have a say in what you do._ Used, thrown away. Heroes faded and forgotten. What did it mean, to be their champion? Nothing, he sneers with disgust. Just another person blinded by their deceits of freedom.

 _You could be a part of a triumphant revolution. One that will bring recognition and glory to all._ Forgotten no more. He could still become what he dreamed of. A leader, an eminent hero that scaled the ranks quickly, rising to the top. One that was the figurehead, the start of the uprising. He could have power, could be recognized(feared and loved; what was the difference?). The whispers stir, chattering excitedly. _Yes, yes,_ they chant. _Accept; this is your dream!_

The meager light in him(since when had he fallen so far into the dark depths of the ocean?) is still drawn to the promises of a bright future, of one far less troubled than he knows it would—could be able to be. Those are lies, he tells himself, steeling his nerves. His own mind trying to deceive him.

Still he wavers, on the brink, on the oh-so-very-thin line between the light and the dark(could they be called the same? He does not know). One misstep in this endless, terrible game he was playing could end with the light falling, letting his world descend into the murkiness of dusk.

Some people complain about the darkness(they cannot see, they say. He resists the urge to tell them that even when there is light, they still cannot see the things that hide, blurred under a veil of deception and darkness). The world is much changed and different when night falls and the monsters come and hunt(the cowards hide; they are the first to fall. The strong do not fear; even if they do, they do not show it. Make them your own, the whispers say. Perhaps they speak the truth). He does not care for the judgmental stares of the others. The darkness has become his home(the unknown, the endless possibilities of what could happen next draws him ever closer). The light has rejected him, and now he must carve out a path in the world full of tortuous twists and turns, never leading where you think they go.

It seems simple. The darkness welcomes him, embraces him as he is. In the light, he lives a life of charades, of a worn-out act of happiness and contentedness because he cannot be accepted any other way. Because no one can see past those sweet deceptions they tell their own. Because only he can(and no one else can understand).

Absentmindedly, his fingers run along his scar. The superficial one, not the one mirrored inside. The one that was inflicted upon his skin, not his mind. The one caused by the dragon in that god-forsaken garden(not the one he caused himself). A reminder of how much it had cost him—and for what? To be their perfect little hero? A sneer twists his once-friendly features, and the suddenly the world is laid out, sharp and crystal clear, in front of him.

Walk in the light or fall into the dark.

 _Choose one_ , the whispers purr. _You've been waiting your whole life._

Choices(something he's never been good at).

In the end, he thinks as the door slams shut behind him, you always have to succumb to the darkness lurking at the finale of every journey—whether a fantastically fast-paced whirlwind or a monotone blur of tedium. Why not live his life as a shooting star—an almost impossibly brilliant streak of light in the dark night sky, burning far brighter than the rest?(but of course, every star has to fall, and every story, not matter how short or long, must come to an end)

 _Fine,_ he had said(to himself, a promise; to the primordial being around him, a response to the deal).

Fine. And with the one single word, he feels himself—almost _sees_ himself glowing brighter, a luminous star among the others, sees himself stepping ever-so-closer to that darkness, sees a world of light close behind him while another one opens.

He smiles as the blackness overwhelms him, embraces him, accepts him as he is(scars and all).

The right or wrong choice(it's all about perspective). He doesn't care anymore.

He's done hiding. Done pretending everything is okay.

Because no, never has there—and never will there be a perfect time where everyone is alright. And that's why he learned to live on past the pain that soon defined who he was.

Pain(scars; sometimes they are the same thing).

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 **Some scars are never seen until it's far too late.**

* * *

 **Okay, so...this was just a random idea that popped into my head and came out as this. It's...weird, I suppose. I'll be writing stories for other 'villains' for other fandoms as well, each a one-shot of varying lengths. I have a sinking suspicion this is actually going to be the shortest one...**

 **Anyhow, thanks for reading and please leave a review! As always, constructive criticism is welcome!**


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